


the only solution (was to stand and fight)

by shrineofyourlies



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Clarke was never on the dropship, F/M, and Bellamy has been captured by Mount Weather, she came down with the Ark, slow burn i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-21
Updated: 2015-04-22
Packaged: 2018-03-25 03:39:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3795307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrineofyourlies/pseuds/shrineofyourlies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“The 100? It’s been a while since they haven’t been the 100. You know why? Because you fucking let them die! And when you decide to get your ass to the mountain, maybe there won’t be anyone to save anymore. They’re all gonna die and it will be your fault! You hear me? Your whole fucking fault!” Through his small speech, Jaha has shaken his head and turned on his heels, followed shortly by Kane and just a little bit later by Griffin. But the girl, she watches him till he’s done screaming, blood pounding in his temples and mouth feeling incredibly dry, as if someone rubbed sandpaper in his throat. She doesn’t look away. She watches him. Studies him. She has a lot to say, but she stays silent.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

“It’s always the same with you Bellamy! Always the same! You’re given good things and you throw them away! Why can’t you accept happiness Bellamy? We’re together, we’re safe, we could be happy, but it’s not enough, is it? Nothing is ever enough with you!” She tries to keep her voice down, but he doesn’t need her to scream at him to see how furious she is. Hands balled into fists, tensed shoulders, shaking limbs. He knows her like the back of his hand, a part of his own self. Same blood. Same flesh. His sister.

 

“You don’t understand Octavia, you really don’t. I can tell you, something’s wrong here and-“ His responsibility. How can he take care of her when she won’t let him?

 

“What is Bellamy? What is wrong? The fact that they feed us? Give us clothes? A shelter? Peace? What is wrong? Nothing. Nothing except your fucking paranoia!” All she has ever known is cages. This one is made of gold but is still one. She doesn’t see, blinded by what she has never had.

 

“Octavia…” She shakes her head and takes a step forward. She is no longer the brittle being he cradled in his arms seconds only after she breathed for the first time. She’s a woman now, lungs filled with fire, and her words, they _burn_. He wishes she will never extinguish. But she needs oxygen and they’re keeping her under the ground. He can’t let her flame die out.

 

“What? What are you gonna do? Force me to come with you and throw away all of this? Our better chance at survival? I don’t think so. You wanna go, do it. Leave. Let happiness to the ones who actually want it. _I_ want it. I’m staying.” He’s leaving but he’ll come back to her.

 

“May we meet again, Octavia.” He’ll come back, and save her. His sister. His responsibility.

 

 

 

He runs. He runs because it is far worse than what he actually thought. They’ll bleed them dry. They’ll take everything they have and they’ll leave empty shells. Another cage awaits Octavia so he runs. He runs because his life started the day she was born. It can’t end now.

 

The Grounder isn’t as quick as he is and he curses her. But she promised to help him, because her people are dying too. She said her name was Echo and he might have laughed under other circumstances. Echo of his own desperation. Echo of his own footsteps. Of his heavy breathing. Of his pain.

 

She told him she saw his home fall from the sky before she was captured. He figures she’s not talking about the dropship filled with delinquents, his friends, his _people_ when she mentions the guards and the weapons and the bullets making holes in her brothers’ chests. She hates them, she says, but they can help get her people back. So she shuts out her hatred, gives directions to Bellamy and follows him.

 

He’s exhausted and dehydrated and famished when he finally sees it. In the distance, above the trees, scraps of metal towering over everything, a whole station. It’s like a slap in the face, a kick in the stomach. He can’t feel air in his lungs but he runs. He runs, until his legs are ready to give out under his weight but his mind won’t give in. He runs, until black spots dance in front of him. Until his heart is raging against his ribcage and he thinks it will break some of his bones with its force. Until he doesn’t even register the cries coming from the guard telling him to stop. Until the only thing that makes him stop is a bullet flying in his direction and grazing his bicep, his body tumbling on the ground and his mind blacking out.

 

He comes back to consciousness only seconds after, waking to hot pain and screams, and people everywhere around him, shouting things in every direction, and restraining Echo and grabbing his arms and pulling him to his feet. He wants to tell them they don’t understand, but his voice dies out when someone hits him in the temple and he is gone for good this time.

 

 

 

When he wakes a second time someone is helping him drink and even though it seems like the best thing he has ever tasted in ages, he chokes and sputters and pushes away the person who is kneeling next to him as he sits up, and sees a barrel of a gun pointed his way. His hands are tied behind his back and his shoulders scream in agony.

 

“Stop! Don’t you see he’s one of _us_?” The voice behind him is feminine and young and ever so slightly panicked. Her right hand falls on his shoulder but his gaze is on the gun and the guard, his hand shaking and his face twisted in an angry snarl.

 

“He’s dangerous. He brought one of _them_ here. Dangerous, ok?” Bellamy wonders who attacked first when they eventually met. The Arkers, and _them_. The inhabitants of this living hell. Who killed first? Who’s the real monster here? People who tried their best to survive down there after humankind destroyed the very thing it had been given? A hundred underage delinquents tumbling from the sky right in the arms of murderous clans? The people who sent those kids to die? He thinks about Echo and her words, and he thinks he hates them too.

 

“His hands are tied. I can deal with him. Wait outside the door.” The gun is slowly being lowered down, but the guard doesn’t move. Feet planted on the ground. Accusatory glare. Bellamy thinks he might know him from a long time ago when he was training to be a guard. But the man won’t recognize him. No one remembers the cadet being kicked out and turned into a janitor. It’s just a little joke between them. No name and no face for this boy. A nobody.

 

“Miss Griffin, he’s a prisoner, your mother-“ But the girl, she’s not a nobody. He quickly turns around and curses himself when pain shoots through his arms but he watches her. Stares at her. Except from some dirt and his blood on her hands, she is immaculate. Clothes relatively untouched. Clean blond hair. Pale skin free of scars. Blue eyes that are not haunted by pain, sadness, horror. She hasn’t seen anything of the world she has landed on. She knows nothing of it. Is she lucky or to be pitied? When it’ll hit her, it’ll hit her hard. The crown of the privileged princess will roll out in mud and blood, sooner or later. He almost wishes he’ll be there to see the downfall.

 

“Wait outside the door.” With a sigh the guard nods and walks backwards to the door. He won’t leave him out of his sight, so Bellamy holds his gaze. Doesn’t look away. He won’t be the one to cave in. Only when the door closes the heated exchange stops, and the girl starts speaking again. “Hey, I’m sorry about that, I’m-“ He turns to her once again and shakes his head and cuts her off. He has no time for her and what she might say.

 

“Your mother. I need to speak to her. Or the Chancellor. Is Jaha on the ground? Kane?” She looks at him dumbfounded, mouth slightly hanging open at the rude interruption. He doesn’t care. He gets up, or rather tries to, because with his hands tied behind his back it’s easier said than done, and he only manages not to fall head first thanks to her strong hand holding his elbow and helping him up. Her touch lingers.

 

“Wait, slow do-“ Her voice is soft, soothing, but once again he shakes his head. He’s not calm and he won’t calm down, even if his whole body screams in agony and blood trickles down his arm. Fucking bullets and fucking guards.

 

“I’m not going to wait. They have my sister and my people and I can’t waste any time sitting in a fucking cell! I fucking need to speak to one of your kind and I can’t fucking wait, ok? I-“ Quickly her face changes, a crease forming between her brows as she frown, her mouth set in a straight line. Her hand falls from his arm as she takes a step back and looks over his shoulder.

 

“Miss Griffin, I heard yelling, is everything ok?” He closes his eyes and lets out a long sigh. She’s going to say he’s fucking mental and dangerous indeed and they’ll lock him up in this cell and his people, his sister will _die_. Maybe she’ll even say he was aggressive towards her, and is that worth a death sentence? He wonders how they are even going to get rid of criminals now. A bullet in the head? A rope around the neck? Maybe he’ll be the first to find out. _Fucking hell._

 

“Yes. Bring the Council here.” His eyes snap open and he studies her. She still looks as stern as just before but something has changed in her stance. Some determination in the way she holds herself, some stiffness in her shoulders, a different light in her gaze.

 

“They said they would discuss with the prisoner at first light tomorrow. They’re dealing with the _savage_ right now.” He doesn’t turn around to look at the guard. He can’t help but stay focus on her, on the way her mouth twists when she hears the word savage, how a discreet but noticeable condescending roll of her eyes shows him she’s used to being obeyed without discussion. Easily irritable, but barely reacted to his tantrum. Interesting little thing. He bets she’s still no different from the others. He bets he’ll hate her too.

 

“I said bring them here. _Now_. The girl can wait. He can’t.” But right now it’s difficult to. He wants to hate her but she’s helping him, and why? Why would she want to help him save a bunch of delinquents? They are stains in her perfect little world. He hears the guard leaving and when she turns back to him he has an answer. “You know where they are? Is Wells alright?” He snickers. How could he even forget about that?

 

“Of course the princess would only care about the prince.” She raises an eyebrow and he realizes she expects an answer. He lets out a long sigh and watches how she bites down on her bottom lip with anxiety, how she twists her hands, how her whole face is nothing but apprehension. He calmly leans against the wall and ends her suffering. “Yes. Yes, Wells Jaha is alright. For now, at least.” The breath she lets out is shaky, her trembling hands rubbing her temples as she looks down to hide the sudden wetness in her eyes. But when she faces him again all trace of relief is gone. She presses her lips tightly together. A lingering shadow of anger or even hatred crosses her features. He wonders and wonders and wonders but she shows nothing else but blankness. Surprising little thing. Princess of ice.

 

She tends his wounds in silence and he won’t be the one to break it. She cleans his face from the mud and the blood. It feels good, water running down his face, her gentle hands on his skin. She’s cold when he is burning up inside, and it cools him down. A little moment of peace. He won’t say it out loud. He won’t look at her and smile to her and thank her. She’s one of them too, and he know that their soft hands can easily slid up to his throat and choke him to death. They already tried.

 

 

 

“Why have you required the Council’s presence Clarke?” He might have dozed off in the corner where he was sitting because he didn’t hear the footsteps coming, and his head snapped up at the sound of a man’s voice. He recognizes it easily. He did public announcements sometimes, broadcasting his face and voice for the whole population of the Ark to hear and see. His appearance always meant bad news. Why would this time be any different from the others?

 

“The Mountain Men have my people and they are going to kill them since our blood is a cure for them. We have to leave now, we can’t waste any time, we’ve got to save them. They’re going to kill them all. So you’re going to untie me and give me men that I can lead to the Mount Weather to save my friends, ok?” He’s getting angrier by the second because they all share the same blank look. They all look so fucking stupid and infuriating standing there while he’s once again stuck sitting on the ground because of those fucking tied hands, watching him with a mixed look of pity and annoyance and condescendence. 

 

“Bellamy Blake. The one who wasn’t supposed to be on that dropship.” They both know how he managed to end up on the ground, but it doesn’t matter right now. “So here we meet again. What, no gun pointed my way?” It shouldn’t matter right now. He’s talking about the lives of a bunch of _kids_ , and Jaha thinks about his own before. He hates him.

 

“Can we talk about this _later_? When you have helped me save those kids? I told you, we can’t waste any time. We have to leave, _now_.”

 

“Such matter is to be discussed by the Council. Although we hear your words and thank you for your help, you remain a criminal who helped an enemy enter our walls and who tried to kill the Chancellor, and therefore will remain locked here until your _punishment_.” Kane has taken a step so he stands directly next to Jaha, arms crossed over his chest. His face showed no indication as to what exactly his punishment would be, but the discreet look of alarm the girl, the princess, _Clarke_ , sent her mother tells him he has to brace himself for the worst. He hates them all.

 

“Are you fucking serious? Did you even hear what I said? They’re going to kill those kids! The ones _you_ sent out here to die! And the Grounder, she’s not an enemy, she’s going to help me bring them back, her people are captives in the mountain too.” He screams at them but it sounds like pleas, even to his own ears, and he’s mad, he’s enraged, he wishes he could jump to his feet and throw a solid punch in their faces, for standing there and doing absolutely _nothing_.

 

“The Grounders attacked us. We need the guards here to protect our home. Until other stations are found and we have more men, nobody will leave the camp. The Council will take care of this, so forget about this. The rescue of the 100 doesn’t concern you anymore.” Griffin’s so reasonable, so calm, so pragmatic he wants to scream. Does she not understand? Does she not get that the kids, they’re her daughter’s age? Some even younger? Some already _dead_?

 

“The 100? It’s been a while since they haven’t been the 100. You know why? Because you fucking let them die! And when you decide to get your ass to the mountain, maybe there won’t be anyone to save anymore. They’re all gonna die and it will be your fault! You hear me? Your whole fucking fault!” Through his small speech, Jaha has shaken his head and turned on his heels, followed shortly by Kane and just a little bit later by Griffin. But the girl, she watches him till he’s done screaming, blood pounding in his temples and mouth feeling incredibly dry, as if someone rubbed sandpaper in his throat. She doesn’t look away. She watches him. Studies him. She has a lot to say, but she stays silent.

 

“Clarke, darling, come with us.” He counts four long seconds before her gaze falls from his face to her muddy boots. A sigh, acceptance maybe, and she turns around without looking at him one last time. He watches her leave, silent footsteps, tensed shoulders, head held high. Her hands twitch at her sides. He wonders and opens his mouth and- The door closes. She’s gone. He’s alone. Alone with his imagination.

 

His sister in a cage, pale and sickly. His friends hanging from the ceiling, being drained from their blood. Blood, blood everywhere. When exhaustion finds him, it feels like he’s choking, thick liquid in his nose and throat. Metallic taste on his tongue. A sea of blood, _his_ , _theirs_ , and he’s drowning.

 

 

 

A guard wakes him up with a kick in the stomach, and he coughs loudly. There are two more, standing at the door, with their hands carefully put on their guns, ready to draw out and shoot him if he makes any move. Fucking stupid, because he can’t even feel his arms and legs anymore. When the first one approaches him and unties his hands, he can’t help feel the urge to throw a solid punch in his direction and take away, but he’ll know he’ll be pierced with multiple bullet holes before he can seem even remotely aggressive. The guard grabs his arm forcefully and ties his hands in front of him without him even reacting. Exhaustion. Hunger. Thirstiness. He’s weak. Weaker than he has ever been after three whole months on the ground.

 

“Why the fuck did you do that?” His voice is hoarse and his throat fucking hurts. He has never had sand in his mouth but he believes it would feel like this. He’s so hungry his vision gets blurry and his hands are trembling. He thinks he’s going to pass out, and he has so many cramps caused by hunger that he feels like puking; he has nothing to puke anyway, but still he’s suddenly dry heaving and it leaves him even weaker than before. His eyes are fucking wet and he curses himself for being this pathetic in front of the guards.

 

And when one of the guards drops a food tray that he hadn’t seen at first sight right before him, Bellamy wishes he could control himself and have some dignity, but he springs towards what seem to be greyish porridge and doesn’t bother taking the spoon coming with it. He takes a handful and shoves it in his mouth and sighs in delight even though it might be the most tasteless thing he has ever had, but it’s slightly warm and it settles in his stomach and he knows he has to slow down or else he is going to vomit for good this time. The cup of water he has is drank in barely seconds, and as it comes down he feels strength coming back to him. He feels warmer, less sick when the guards takes back the empty and leaves with his two colleagues. He sits against the wall and closes his eyes.

 

Regret. Either he’s going to rot in this cell forever or they are going to execute him for the crimes he has committed. He should have been stronger and refused the food. Dying of starvation, on his own terms, would feel better than being killed by them.

 

He knows he has no chance of fleeing. The guards use a card to open the door, and he can easily guess some would remain standing in front of it. There’s another one behind him, but nobody ever uses it. He guesses it leads to a shattered part of the station that has no use for them, and anyway, he wouldn’t be able to tear it open when his hands are tied. He’s stuck in those grey four walls, and thinks of what his sister had to go through for sixteen years of her life. Fate’s a bitch and is fucking making fun of him.

 

He doesn’t touch the food the following time. Same thing the day after. The hunger is back but he accepts it with will, till it is nothing but a dull pain on the back of his mind. He doesn’t even bother looking up when he hears someone enter the room. Always a guard who drops the food tray, waits, then leaves with it, untouched.

 

 

 

“I heard you weren’t eating and I convinced them to let me see you to make sure it wasn’t due to your wounds getting infected and you being sick.” The voice surprises him at first, because the guards assigned to him don’t talk to him and are not _women_. Young Griffin puts down the tray in front of him and nudges it with her foot, pushing him towards him, as he stubbornly crosses his arms over his chest. Tries to. Hands tied, and all that shit.

 

“I’m fine. I just don’t want your fucking food and your fucking water.” She looks a bit exasperated, rolls her blue eyes at him and takes a step forward. It’s probably her only chance at towering over him, since he’s sitting. But even with her hands resting on either side of her waist, a look of disapproval thrown his way, he is in no way intimated.

 

“You need to eat, otherwise you’re going to be weak.” Her voice is chastising now, and he actually snorts. He can’t help but answer her with bitterness leaking through his words.

 

“What’s the point of not being weak? I’m fucking stuck in that cell anyway.” There’s acid dropping from each of syllables but she seems unbothered by it. She just steps closer and keeps that determination on her face.

 

“Eat. Please.” She doesn’t seem to get he can be as stubborn as her. If she wants to stand the whole fucking night in his cell telling him to eat, then he’s fine with it. He doesn’t care. He’s pretty comfortable on the floor, and he’ll have no trouble falling asleep. Hunger brings exhaustion, and sleep brings more hunger. It’s a vicious circle. He supposes he’s fine with it, now that any trace of hope has left his body.

 

“What do you fucking want, _princess_?” He’s fucking tired, of everything, of her, of the princess coming down from her pretty golden tower to check on him, the starving peasant, offering grace and generosity, and he feels like spitting at her feet. He doesn’t care if she stays there watching him with that judgemental glare, but hell he’d prefer if she could just go away and leave him the fuck alone.

 

“Be quiet, please.” He doesn’t care his voice has gotten louder, and he doesn’t understand why she does. The guards know he’s here, that she’s here too. She makes no sense, telling him to shut up. She makes no sense coming here in the first place. He watches her walk towards him and kneel at his side, her hands reaching out for his and his first reflex is to jerk away from her but she lightly slaps his arm, the uninjured one.

 

“What are you doing?” She grabs his hands and this time he reluctantly lets her, and out of nowhere she’s got a knife out of her sleeve and she’s freeing his tied hands.

 

“What does it look like I’m doing?” He looks at her, studies her, his brows furrowed, watches her put the knife back in her sleeve, and he begins to open his mouth because he doesn’t understand a fucking thing that is happening at this right moment but she cuts him off before he can say anything. “Here, that’s done. I’m going to explain what’s happening but you have to eat while I do it, ok?” He doesn’t move and she sits in front of him, giving him a glare and raising her brows as she waits for him to reach out for his tray before continuing. “Ok, it’s not much but I found some people who want to come with you to save your people. I manage to sneak out weapons thanks to Sergeant Miller and-“

 

“Miller like Nathan Miller?” He speaks with his mouth full of that same strange looking porridge and it’s still as tasteless but he’s still hungry, so that’s fine. He doesn’t really know why he’s obeying her all of the sudden, but she untied him, didn’t she, so he might just see where that leads.

 

“Yeah, exactly. But don’t interrupt, for God’s sake, just eat. I’m going to open that door, alright?” She tilts her head towards the door behind him, the one he has never seen be used, and he nods slowly. “If you walk straight ahead for a bit you’ll see the wall on the right is torn open. Don’t worry, it’s hard to miss. So you go through the opening, and you’ll end up in a room with the ceiling crushed. It’s a bit complicated to work around the room, but you’ll manage. So you escape through the ceiling, you stay down and quiet, and you jump so you’re on the ground. It’s not that high. You’ll be outside, near the electric fence. You wait for me there, alright? I’m going to stay here a bit, give you time, and then I’m going to walk out and tell the guards you’re sleeping. They’ll most likely buy it and won’t check before quite some time. It’s going to leave you enough time to get away, alright?” He nods once again, and chews slowly. He has a hard time grasping her words because after everything a brittle spark of hope is flickering in his chest, and he can’t believe this is actually happening. But she doesn’t let him process her words, keeps speaking quickly, checking the main door from time to time. “So when you’re out you wait for me, I’ll meet you outside. I have some stuff ready for you, alright? Plus, I have a deal with Raven, the mechanic. She’s going to cut off the electric fence so you can sneak out and bring back her boyfriend, ok? His name’s Finn so make sure he’s alright.” Bellamy says nothing but the churning in his stomach nearly makes him throw up. He simply nods, again. He’s going to bring back his people. “Ok. I think that’s all. So let’s do this. You’re done eating?”

 

“Yeah.” His voice wobbles with emotion but he hides it under a light cough. She hands him the cup of water and he drinks it in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand and getting to his feet the same time as her.

 

He follows her to the door and watches her insert the card in the narrow opening, and a discreet green light appears before the door opens quietly. She nods to him and with a flick of her wrist tells him to go, and quick, her gaze already on the main door, ready to intervene if the guards were to barge in. He doesn’t thank her, just walks in the dark room, and just turns around when he hears the door close again. He barely catches her frame standing out against the light, and he shakes his head. He has no time to waste. He follows her instructions. He’s going to get his people back. He’s going to save his sister.

 

 

 

He counts the seconds until he sees her moving towards him, discreet in the shadows. She waits till they’re right next to each other before handing him the pack she’s holding. He takes it carefully, nods at her, and puts it on his back. It’s not that heavy and won’t bother him during the walk to Mount Weather.

 

“I put food in there, as well as some clothes and a blanket. There’s a couple of bottles of water, but that won’t last long, so you’ll have to refill them at the river, alright? Also I sneaked out a walkie-talkie for you, and I have one back in my tent, so if you need to communicate I can answer, okay? And you can keep me updated, too.” She doesn’t let him answer and speaks again, her brows furrowed in concentration. “Ok so you have the pack, you’ll join the others in the forest, they’re already there and waiting for you. The girl as well. The Grounder. I managed to get her out too.” He opens his mouth in surprise but closes it quickly. “They’ll give you weapons. And I guess that’s all. I can’t hear the electricity going through the fence anymore, so it’s your time to go. Raven will put it back in five minutes so you better hurry.” He nods and turns around to face the fence, but her fingers gripping his forearm makes him stop and look over his shoulder. “Be careful, alright? And bring back your people, Bellamy.” It comes out of nowhere but he covers her hand with his own, gives it a gentle squeeze before letting go. She smiles at him tentatively, and the little flame of hope within his chest grows stronger.

 

“Thank you, Clarke.”

 

He makes his way through a small opening in the fence, and in seconds he’s gone. Free. His people will be too, soon. His sister as well. His steps match the rhythm of his heartbeat. It’s a battle drum in his chest. A war cry in his lungs. He’ll save them.


	2. II.

He manages an alliance with the grounders through Echo. He meets their _heda_ , Lexa, and she accepts to send her three hundreds of her warriors. Indra, her second-in-command doesn’t like him very much, but she is loyal to her commander. And her commander somehow sees something in Bellamy that he can’t decipher. He stays three days in their camp discussing tactics, and catches her looking at him with a glint in her gaze he can’t comprehend.

 

But when he is getting ready to depart, exchanging a few words with the healer who is going to accompany them, Lincoln, and she marches towards him and calls him _Belomi kom Skaikru_ , he thinks that maybe it’s with some kind of respect he is not used to. He has heard this tone before, but it was never directed towards him. Never towards the poor boy from the station falling apart. Never towards the cadet in training. Never towards the janitor that got his mother killed and his sister locked up. No respect for him, ever, until this right moment, with Lexa, who could treat him like dirt under her nails, but doesn’t. It’s a first, and the flame in his battered heart grows stronger and burns, burns, burns.

 

_What about Clarke?_ He shakes his head at the thought, because Clarke is the Princess of the Ark, and anything coming from her doesn’t mean much. She’s unlike Lexa, who’s so powerful, so smart, who has everything because she fought for it and not because it was handed to her. Respect from Clarke means nothing. From Lexa, it means the world. And when he starts walking towards the mountain, his steps have never been so assured. He has never felt so strong. So right.

 

 

 

But Lexa betrays the trust he had put in her. She sacrifices his people over hers, makes a deal with the mountain men. All the grounders are freed and start to leave and Lexa walks to him, sees the rage in his wet eyes, and tells him she wishes she was sorry. But she did the right thing, she says, didn’t let her heart affect her mind, because _love is weakness_ , and suddenly Bellamy realizes how wrong he had been from the beginning. There’s no trace of humanity in her. Pure reflection. She’s just an empty shell, when it is his emotions that lead him. They don’t smother him. They allow him to _breathe._

 

They make him human. And as he watches Lexa, blood splattered across her face, dark war paint around her calculating green eyes, he understands how she gained it all. She doesn’t care about anybody but her. Everything she does is because it is good for her. She never respected him. She just saw in him the way to get her people back. He was only a pawn in her twisted game, and she was cheating since the beginning, when he didn’t even know the rules.

 

When he finds himself alone with his despair, he uses it to get back on his feet and get moving. Start thinking. Find something, anything. For the first time he uses his walkie-talkie and Clarke answers right away. She doesn’t know much about the situation, he doesn’t even tell her he’s alone, she can’t offer much but words of encouragement, because _she trusts him_ , she says to him. It’s not much, but at this right moment, it is enough.

 

 

 

Turns out he isn’t alone. Lincoln is now a traitor to his own people, having refused to leave when Lexa commanded it. Indra had spat at his feet when he had said that he wouldn’t join the camp of the cowards, making a deal with the enemy that had been slaughtering his people for years. He will fight, he says to Bellamy. For justice, he says. Bellamy finds him to have surprising revolutionary ideas, and decides he likes it. He’s fond of history, and knows it is never made by people sharing everyone’s opinion. Maybe it’s just the two of them, because his former companions said they were coming back home because there was no hope, but he feels some sort of faith. A feeling in his chest blossoms. They might make it. They have to.

 

 

 

They make it inside the mountain through the tunnels, and he sees it’s already too late for some of his friends. They got rid of their corpses, and they rot in the tunnels, drained of blood and bones pierced. He vomits when he sees Charlotte, 12 year old Charlotte who was afraid of her nightmares but got to live one and die in it. Fox’s there too, and he can’t help but start silently crying. But Lincoln is there to get him back to his feet, and when he speaks Bellamy finds some remaining strength. _The dead are gone, but the living are hungry_. It makes sense. It’s true. His friends await, and he has no time to waste mourning. He’ll do it after, once he has saved as many as he can.

 

 

 

He finds Monty inside, who leads him to the control room. They’re killing them all, drilling into their bones, and his little sister is screaming on one of the screens. He has no choice. He has to do it. His sister. His responsibility. He concentrates on Octavia and the pain and terror on her face and he pulls the lever. In one move, one decision, he eradicates an entire population.

 

He feels empty, Jasper is holding a corpse, but his sister stopped screaming. It’s okay, he supposes. It was the right thing to do, he hopes.

 

 

 

They evacuate. They’re slow, and they have time to see the burnt corpses. Bellamy wishes he could stare straight ahead, but he forces himself to look down, to see the face of everyone he just killed. Every man, every woman, every child. Faces are printed in the back of his mind and he is silent and doesn’t react to people coming to see, thanking him. He just holds Octavia’s hand for a couple of seconds but she has passed out anyway, and Lincoln is taking care of her, and then of everybody else, but there are too many people to be dealt with and he is alone. They need help.

 

They manage to walk for a few hours, but everyone is exhausted and the night is falling and they have to stop. Lincoln still has to take care of way too many people and the walkie-talkie in Bellamy’s pack suddenly feels heavy. He grabs it quickly, and sighs.

 

“Clarke, this is Bellamy, do you read me?” He has to try three other times before she finally answers, and when she does he is surprisingly relieved.

 

“Bellamy. Is everything alright?” She sounds weird, tired, and he realizes that it might be later than he actually thought. She was probably sleeping, comfortable in her bed, without any blood on her hands, and he sighs.

 

“I got them out.” He doesn’t even recognize his own voice. The exhaustion, the emptiness in it. Can she imagine what he has done by the sound of his voice only? The cold-blooded mass-killing.

 

“Wha- How? Oh my God that’s- wow. I’m happy for you Bellamy.” She didn’t get it. His people are free, his sister is alive, but there is no happiness in this. Relief, maybe, but no joy. How can he be happy when the blood of hundreds is dripping from his hands?

 

“Most of them are injured and I have only one healer with me. It’s- Fuck. It’s not good ok?” His eyes burn, and he rubs them angrily with the pads of his fingers. They’re wet and he’s crying. He’s crying.

 

“But, the grounders, can’t they help you?” He difficultly swallows the lump in his throat and holds back a sob. He’s alone, so alone. Alone when his conscience, and hundreds of faces of dead people staring at him.

 

“No. It’s, it’s a long story, ok? I- We need help, Clarke.” His voice breaks and he counts three long seconds of silence before Clarke replies, suddenly sounding determined.

 

“How far away are you from camp?” He tries to remember how long it took him to arrive in the first place, and how long they walked, how far.

 

“I’d say, three, four hours?” He actually has no idea. They walked for a while but they were too slow. They might as well be only a couple of miles from the mountain, from all he know. He can’t see, it’s too dark around him, and he’s too tired.

 

“Ok. Don’t worry, I know what to do. I’ll contact you later, alright? I’ll be quick.” If she says something else after he doesn’t know, because suddenly the ground is getting closer and everything turns dark.

 

 

 

He wakes slowly, to soft orange light filtering through the tree tops, and Lincoln telling him he passed out from exhaustion and _they_ let him sleep. He frowns, not understanding, until he notices the movement all around him, people taking care of the injured. They’re a dozen. With medical supplies and possibly knowledge. Arkers. He tries to get to his feet as his heart starts hammering against his ribcage but Lincoln tells him to take it slowly, to eat and drink before doing anything. He obeys, but can’t help searching around him, not looking for anyone in particular, he tries to convince himself, but-

 

He sees her, walking through the survivors, stopping near each one and looking for injuries, mending them. There’s a stiffness in her spine. A difficulty in her steps. Sickly pale skin and sweat making her shirt cling to her body. Something is wrong. He thinks and- He sees her wince and stop to catch her breath, eyes shut tightly for a second. She’s _hurt_. He stands, ignoring Lincoln’s protests, quickly walks to her, and when he’s closer he sees it. The stains of blood on the back of her dark shirt. It’s dry. _Hers_.

 

Her breathing is shaky and her shoulders are trembling. He waits for her to walk to a zone where there are fewer injured to approach her. She doesn’t feel him get closer, and lets out a little shriek when he speaks, right behind her.

 

“You should take a break.” She spins on her heels and as she does so her eyes become unfocused and her skin turns a greenish white and she seems to be losing her balance. He catches her and she shakes her head, detaches herself from his hands and gives him a weak smile. “You have to take a break.”

 

“What? No, I’m fine.” She tries to give a smile that looks more sincere but her mouth twitches and his brows furrow. “It’s good to see you, Bellamy. I’m glad you’re okay.” She lightly pats his arm and begins to turn away from him but he grips her wrist.

 

“But you’re not.” She gives him a confused glance and he hates himself for doing this but she makes his task harder, denying and everything.

 

“Wh-” She yelps when his hand grips the hem of her shirt. Surprise and pain. He lifts the fabric quicker than she can react in her state and he curses loudly. He has trouble finding an untouched inch of her skin. It’s covered in wounds, the flesh bloody and somewhat burnt. Straight lines. Angry red marks. He curses again and hates them. For doing that to her. Electric lash. Punishment.

 

“How many?” He has to control the trembling of his hands, and lets go of her shirt to ball them into fists. He gulps, and she looks at anything but him, stubbornly focusing on whatever is behind him.

 

“Don’t worry, it’s okay.” He takes a step closer, his knuckles turning white, and hates the way she softly flinches when he speaks again.

 

“How many?” She closes her eyes, her long lashes resting on top of her pale, hollow cheeks, and lets out a long sigh, before opening them again and finally looking at him in the eyes as she answers.

 

“Fifteen. It’s alright, I knew what I was getting in, ok? Freeing prisoners and giving them weapons and everything. I knew. Don’t worry, I’m fine. Really.” Unbelievable. How she dismisses it all, as if they hasn’t lashed her and her back wasn’t a huge open wound, as if she hasn’t experienced _torture_ because she has done what those cowards didn’t have the balls to.

 

“Who gave the order?” She’s clearly waiting for him to take a hint and drop the subject, but he won’t. Not when he’s responsible for what she had to go through.

 

“Doesn’t really matter.” She seems annoyed now, more than before, upset even, and it’s another reason for him to demand the truth.

 

“Clarke. Who?”

 

“My mother. Happy now?” Her blue eyes are so cold when she angrily answers him, pushing him away and getting back to her work. He was wrong. She’s not one of them. He should have guessed sooner, maybe when she helped him, against all odds and despite the risks. Maybe when she took care of him, feeding him and mending his wounds. Maybe when her own father was floated for treason. How could she be one of them when they kept tearing her open? When they still do? He hates them all. “I better get back to work.” She mutters as she turns away and he lets her do so. She’s angry and he’s angrier.

 

He imagines it. Her hands tied. Her back bared. Her _own mother_ counting. The guard hitting. Blood dripping. Her screaming in agony. Crying. Because of him. He hates them all so _fucking_ much. He curses loudly and punches the nearest tree. He barely gets a look from the people around. He continues.

 

When he finds Octavia the knuckles of both of his hands are bloodied and she is finally awake. She gives him a weak smile and a ‘hey Bell’ that break his goddam heart, and starts crying. He holds her close, careful of her injured leg, and hums in her ear. She’s okay, he tells her. She will be. He’s there, with her, isn’t he? He promised he’d come back for her and he did. They’re together, once again. They’ll be fine. He loves her. His only family. His little sister. His responsibility.

 

 

 

He carries her the whole way to Camp Jaha, never lets go, even when they take stops, because he was afraid to lose her and now he has her again. She’s asleep most of the trip, but he doesn’t mind. Her weight in his arms, her warm breath against his neck, it’s enough. She’s alive. She’s alive and with him.

 

Twice Clarke checks on Octavia, and he watches her take her pulse and temperature quietly, only nodding in gratitude when she lets him know everything is alright. They don’t speak, but more than once his gaze is attracted to her blondness among the crowd, or he feels her sky blue eyes on him.

 

 

 

When they arrive to camp, he brings his sister to medical and puts her on one of the cots, next to the sleeping body of Wells Jaha, brushing some strands of hair out of her face. He gives Jackson, Dr Griffin’s assistant, a hard glare when he proposes to take care of her, and the poor man tells him he’ll send Abby instead. When she joins them, she is the one to shoo him away as she begins to take off Octavia’s pants to bandage her leg, and he tries to tell her she’s his _little sister_ , and they lived together in ten meters, so bare legs are not a fucking huge deal, for him anyway, but she still sends him away. Says the place is already too crowded or whatnot, and she’ll make sure he is informed when he can come visit Octavia. He hates her even more.

 

Outside, everyone has gathered around the gates. The more injured are sent to the med tent, the others are sitting on the ground, catching a breath, finally. Arkers are running to them, finding friends and sons and daughters and lovers.

 

“Where’s Finn? Have you seen Finn Collins? Is he really injured? Is he in medical? Please, has someone seen Finn?” A dark-haired girl with tan skin, Raven, he figures, is limping through the survivors, asking questions, but they’re too tired to notice her and answer. She joins Clarke and grips her arm, and even though he cannot hear he knows she’s asking the same questions, again and again. She has a crazy look in her dark eyes, and he sees the denial there. Clarke does too, but she accompanies her to him, a hand on her shoulder. He’s sure she knows, but she asks him the same question anyway. “Where’s Finn?” Her voice is suddenly quiet, weak, as if she’s just awaiting him to say it out loud. He hates it. She knows, but she still wants to hear it from him. He hates it.

 

“I’m sorry. He has never been in the mountain. He died.” _I killed him_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. Closed dropship, ring of fire. He had agreed. He knew. He didn’t run back. No other choice. _I killed him_. “I’m sorry.” Raven lets out a long scream as she springs towards him, fist raised and ready to hit him as endless tears roll down her cheeks, but Clarke stops her. She holds her tight as she sobs and screams and stumbles to the ground, stroking her hair and muttering gentle words in her ear. But her gaze, it’s on him. And there’s no animosity in her eyes. Pity, maybe.

 

 

 

He wanders through camp till nigh time. Octavia is peacefully sleeping in the med tent, high on medication, and he’s alone, with no idea where to go, because he has no tent and medical is packed and they still haven’t put him back in his cell so he is not going to go back on his own. He’ll sleep near the fire, he supposes, because even though summer is slowly disappearing, the air is still warm when there is no wind like tonight. He’ll be fine, but he won’t sleep before a bit. He has to do something before.

 

His feet carry him to where he saw her go, and he is relieved to see light coming from her tent. He’s too focused on his task to even think about announcing himself, and he just walks him and winces seconds only after doing so because that’s hugely inappropriate, and even more than that when he realizes that despite the fact she is not facing him, she’s still has no shirt on, difficultly putting some sort of unguent on her wounds. He curses and she jerks around, and thank god she’s covering her chest but he can’t cover the blush spreading on his face and burning his ears.

 

“Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to- I mean, I shouldn’t have come in without you telling me to, that’s rude and I’m-” She turns around and with a flick of her wrist tells him to shut up. She doesn’t care, apparently. Or she’s too tired or has no time to. So he finds himself standing in the middle of her tent, watching her struggle to reach the middle of her back and between her shoulder blades, letting groans of pain with each movement. “Do you, huh, do you want any help?” She freezes and his eyes widen and he mentally curses himself for being a fucking idiot and acting so weirdly around her and- She cuts his train of thoughts by throwing her glance over her shoulder and giving him a small smile.

 

“Yes. Please.” It takes him a couple of seconds before he moves, walking to her cot and sitting behind her. She pushes toward him a recipient with more of the sort of cream inside, and a bottle of liquor. “To clean your hands.”

 

“Right. Okay.” He is careful to correctly wash his hands, not wanting to infect her already painful-looking wounds. He takes some of the unguent, surprised at its coldness, and begins carefully putting it on her boiling back. She makes some sounds, some of discomfort, others, and he blushes again, that strangely sounds like moans. He tries not to focus on that. Silence settles between them as he continues taking care of her wounds, but when there is no inch of skin uncovered anymore, he realizes he didn’t come here for this. “I, huh, never properly thanked you. For helping me.”

 

“Don’t worry, it’s okay.” She has clean white cloths beside her, and he watches her begin to bandage herself, his eyes following the movement of her hands, until her whole back is covered in the cloth and she puts her shirt back on. She turns around and he notices it’s more difficult to say these things out loud when you have to face the person. He would have preferred to remain as they were, without her blue gaze on him.

 

“No. I mean, really. Thank you. Thank you so much. I came just in time to save her. Octavia, I mean. My sister. Without you… I wouldn’t have her, right now, if it wasn’t for you. So thank you. I owe you one. A fucking huge one.” All he has ever known is to hate people like her, and love Octavia. But now, he can’t find reasons to hate her, but he doesn’t love her, he doesn’t know how to act around her, because, yes, she helped him, but still, a part of him he can’t control wishes she didn’t. It would have been easier to hate her, and easier not to carry this smothering burden on his shoulders. A tiny part of his mind likes to blame her for what happened, reject the fault, the guilt, on her. Likes to rub off the blood on his hands and put it on her, stain her, have a reason to hate her. He wishes there was someone else than him to be blamed. But there’s no one. He’s alone on this. As always. “Even though…”

 

“Even though what?” Blond brows furrowed. Mouth twitching in concern. The look on his face must give him away. He wishes he could stop now but it’s too late, he thinks. He feels that she is not one to easily drop something.

 

“I wish I didn’t have to do what I’ve done. To save her. Them. I wanted to do it. I _needed_ to. But… I don’t think I can live with it. The guilt. It’s- it’s smothering me. I can’t breathe, you know? I don’t deserve to.” He’s staring at his hands and they are shaking. He can almost see them, the blood stains he will never get to wash away. Not even by tearing off his skin, not even by cutting his hands off. They’re printed on his soul, each death a nail stuck deep inside his lungs, his heart, his mind. He wants to rip everything away from his body, get rid of everything that leads to pain, to hurt, to _guilt_. He never asked for this. Never asked to _feel_.

 

“What are you saying?” He wishes he was just an empty shell. He wishes he was made of void, instead of being filled with suffering.

 

“I killed them all, Clarke. I’m a monster.” He wishes he didn’t have the capability to realize all of this. He wishes he had no brain and no functioning heart that had been torn into millions of tiny pieces.

 

“You’re not. You protect your sister, no matter what. That’s who you are.” Her fingers are around his wrist, and they’re so cold compared to the heat emanating from her wounds. Maybe it’s what gives her fire, the pain, the sorrow. Maybe it’s what keeps her living. Maybe that’s why she’s so different from the rest of her kind, the _privileged_ ones. Maybe she’s not really one, after all. Because, unlike them, she _hurts_. She suffers. She _hates_. Not the way the others hate the lower classes, because it’s more some kind of despise than hatred. No, the kind of hatred he felt deep inside his chest, thundering in his heart, when they killed his mother and took his sister away. The kind of hatred he feels now, towards his own self.

 

“There were children. People that helped us. Innocent people. But they died because I pulled that lever and killed them _all_.” He thinks she’s going to jerk away from him, realize what he has done, what he _is_ , but the only thing she does his tighten her fingers around his wrist, and reach out to touch his shoulder with her other hand. Her eyes are a soft blue, boring into his own.

 

“You want forgiveness? Fine. I’ll give it to you. You’re forgiven. You had to make a choice. You made the one that saved your people and your sister. You’re forgiven. I forgive you. And you should forgive yourself, too. They’re fine, Bellamy. They’re _alive_. Thanks to you. There’s no black and white. No wrong and right. No one is the good guy, Bellamy. But that doesn’t mean you’re the bad one.”

 

He doesn’t know he if can, _should_ listen to her, but her words, they are soothing, and he is too tired to fight back, so tired. The little circles she rubs on the back of his hand somehow comfort him, and he doesn’t know if he can accept it, after everything’s he’s done. But he wants to. Wants to get rid of the pain, the guilt. Does that make him a coward? Makes him anything less than he already is? He thinks he has already hit the bottom, and that he can’t dig any further.

 

She asks him if he has any place where to sleep. He nods, quietly thanks her and tells her goodnight, and goes back to his spot on the dirt next to the fire. He repeats the words she said to him in his mind until he falls asleep, hoping, praying she’s right.

 

 

 

He barely has time after waking to check on Octavia, who’s already feeling better and whose cheeks are a little less paler, her green eyes a little more alive and shining, before two guards ask him to follow them to the Council. He isn’t surprised, just tired, walking slowly and his head hanging low. He thinks his pride is gone, gone when he killed an entire population. A part of him wishes it will be his last fight. He’s so tired. Almost surrendering.

 

He hears screaming voices before he even enters. And when he does, he realizes he shouldn’t be that surprised at the sight. Clarke, standing before the Council, arms stubbornly crossed over her chest, rigid stance, determined eyes. He doesn’t even look at them. Just at her. The guards push him, riffle pressed against the small of his back, and he stumbles forward, finds himself towering over her, but looking so much weaker.

 

“You’ve done enough to worsen this boy’s case, don’t you think, Clarke?” He sees the hatred on her face when her mother speaks to her, anger curling her fists.

 

“I won’t let you exile him.” Oh. So that is what awaits him. A lone life in the woods. He’ll either die of starvation or killed by a Grounder, or one of their traps. On his own. He’s fine as long as his sister won’t be here to watch.

 

“You’re lucky he’s not being executed because of you.” He wants to tell them that there isn’t much difference between the two, but Clarke is mad, and doesn’t miss a beat to answer, her shoulders growing tenser.

 

“Executed? Without him they would be all dead! How can you even punish him for saving them all when all you did was stay here and sit and _talk_.” He’s surprised at the tone she is using. This pretty little thing, all soft curves and angelic features, suddenly frightening.

 

“One more word and you will be considered a rebel against the power of the Council. And do you know what that means? _Treason._ ” She lets out a dry laugh and walks slowly to their long table, stands directly in front of her mother, leaning on her hands so she’s properly looking at her in the eyes.

 

“Is that how you get rid of your family? Getting them executed for treason?” He’s startled when she hits the table, hands trembling in anger, rage. “Stop looking at me as if you didn’t understand what I was saying!” She’s not even screaming, but the lowness of her voice makes him uncomfortable. Cold fury.

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She doesn’t even dare watch her own daughter in the eyes, and even him, who has no idea what the fuck is actually happening, senses the lie from where he stands.

 

“How can you still be lying through your teeth when I know the truth? Wells demanded to see me. He thought he was going to die and wanted to talk to me before. He didn’t want to die knowing I hated him. Hated him for something he didn’t do. You- you made him tell his own father he had been in for a rebellion led by dad but regretted it and therefore denounced himself and dad, when you were the one denouncing him. You let me hate him. You let him be accused of complicity of treason so you were in the clear and I didn’t hate you. I- I don’t even know how you can still look at yourself. Look at me. You got your husband killed. My _father_.” Bellamy feels his stomach drop. All he has even held on to is his family, but her, she can’t even do that. He remembers old myths he used to read, about parricide and infanticide gods, about families being torn apart. Sometimes he wishes some things remained stories only.

 

“Clarke, all I wanted was to protect you.”

 

“From what? The only thing I need protecting from is you, _mom_. And I’m doing fine on my own, thank you very much.” He hears her voice wavers slightly before she gets hold of herself again. But the wetness in her eyes is something she can’t get rid of. “So, _Chancellor_. I know you always wanted an explanation to your son’s supposed betrayal. You got it now. Thanks to me. Do I get you to fulfil one of my wishes as a reward?”

 

“This is not how it works-” He sees Clarke try to regain a bit more of fierceness by rolling her eyes. Even Kane, who has stayed silent this whole time, lets out a sigh and rubs his temples.

 

“It is, Abigail. It is and I take away your functions of Councilwoman. What do you want, Clarke?” Jaha doesn’t even spare her a single glance, and under other circumstances Bellamy would have let a low chuckle.

 

“Bellamy Blake to be pardoned for his crimes and allowed to live with us. Same thing for the 38 delinquents he saved, and the Grounder, Lincoln, who helped us.” He doesn’t even have time to react, turn to her, gauge her expression, before Jaha answers.

 

“As the Chancellor, I officially pardon them.”

 

He has no time to thank her. A nod to Jaha and she’s gone, and he’s left standing in front of the Council, dumb look on his face. He’s a free man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it'd be lovely to hear your thoughts :) next chapter will be up soon, thanks for reading x


	3. III.

He wanders around camp. Some people look at him strangely, because he remains the leader of that small pack of delinquents, the ones who now live among everybody else. And he realizes it. They may be officially pardoned, but nothing will ever be the same. People never forget. Don’t want to. They will be pariahs. Rejected. They remain criminals to them. His little sister remains a glitch in the system.

 

He seeks the presence of his peers. Monty gives him a hug when he sees him, but stays mostly silent. He didn’t touch the lever, but he activated it. Jasper hates him, Bellamy thinks. He doesn’t speak to him, refuses to, sends him angry glares, but his eyes are red and puffy and crazy. He loved her, the girl who helped him. The girl Bellamy killed. Murphy isolates himself. Creeps in the darkness. No one wants him around, anyway. Miller tries to assure him he’s fine, but he sees the distance in his eyes. He lived in the mountain and saw things Bellamy didn’t witness. Did things, things he regrets too. He murmurs about people shot between the eyes, a room covered in blood, murdering friends, axes in spines.

 

There are wounds you cannot see. They take the longest to heal, and their scars remain forever. They’ll all need time to recover. Bellamy almost wishes it could bear it all so they don’t have to.

 

Roma offers him a spot in the tent she shares with a couple other delinquents. They both need company and he doesn’t mind. Hopes it’ll help, hopes it’ll make him forget.

 

It doesn’t. He wakes with a knot in his stomach, the thought of having _used_ someone, and tries to reassure himself by repeating that after all, she did the same thing. He hopes that she does feel better. He doesn’t want her to feel like him. _Worse_.

 

He returns to his spot near the fire at night. Avoids Clarke during the day. He owes her way too much. For a few days it becomes a routine. Wake up with a stiff back, eat some porridge, check on Octavia (not long, he’s not allowed, and he might stumble upon Clarke), wander through camp (soldiers only are allowed to go outside), join Miller for dinner, eat some porridge, mostly in silence, check on Octavia one last time, and go to sleep near the fire. After the crazy months he has spent down here, the inactivity drives him mad. Being left alone with his memories and thoughts, too.

 

 

 

He doesn’t understand why Miller is suddenly excusing himself during dinner until he hears someone plopping down next to him and sighing. “Heard you were a liar and had no place to sleep.” He doesn’t look at her but feels her gaze burning a hole through the side of his head.

 

“It’s fine.” He continues eating, staring at the fire until a spot in his vision turns white and even when he detaches his gaze from the flames to look at the darkening sky, it remains, and he tries to blink it away. He won’t look at her.

 

“I have got plenty of room in my tent.” He chew slowly, and she waits patiently for him to swallow, her eyes still on him, and from the movement he hears and feels, completely turning her upper body towards him, expecting.

 

“And done enough for me already.” He thinks she’s going to quickly answer, find something witty to say, but for a good whole minute there is nothing but silence. He finishes his bowl of porridge, carefully puts it away, and with a sigh finally turns to her. She is frowning at him, lips set in a tight line, and hands clutched together in her lap.

 

“Is that your way of expressing gratitude?” That sounds like a reproach. It probably is, he realizes.

 

“It’s my way of telling you I’ve got nothing to repay you.” She rolls her eyes. He wants to smile. She does that a lot, he has noticed, and the sight is becoming familiar. He thinks he might like it.

 

“I’m not expecting anything from you.” It’s his time to frown. He searches some traces of insincerity, some hidden twist in her words. He finds none. Her eyes are clear and genuine and setting him on the edge.

 

“Then why are you doing all of this? It makes no sense.” It doesn’t. People like her, they don’t usually do these kind of stuff, and even less without ripping everything from you in exchange. He knows it too well. Accepted to kill a man to see his sister again. There’s always something awaited. A price too high to pay. She can’t be that different from the rest of them. Why does she have to be so different? He wishes she was just like them. He wishes he could just hate her. Things wouldn’t be this complicated if she was just the same.

 

“Kindness doesn’t make sense to you?” There’s a small chuckle coming from her but he sees there’s nothing funny in that for her. He hears the wobble in her voice.

 

“Not in the world we’re living in. There’s no place for kindness. For selflessness. There’s always a price to pay and I’ve got nothing for you, _princess_.” It shouldn’t be making him mad. He shouldn’t be getting mad, not at her. But he fears. He’s fucking afraid. Afraid that she’s suddenly going to change and act like the people he hates so much and turn her back on him when he actually finds himself reaching out way too much for her. It’s so much easier to push her away and hate her than to let her in and give him the possibility to rip him apart. But each time he takes one step away from her she takes two closer to him and she’s getting too close already. She just has to reach out and she’ll be able put her hands around his neck.

 

“Is that so hard to believe? That one can do something and never expect anything in return?” Her voice is getting softer. Her fingers are ghosting over his own hand and he brings it closer to him. She sees it and swallows the lump in her throat. He notices the wetness in her eyes.

 

“Yes!”

 

“The things I did for you… Do they make you uncomfortable?” Her tone is getting lower. And her shoulders are slumping. She’s starting to understand, he figures.

 

“Yes.”

 

“If I told you there was a way to make it up to me, would you do it?” He coughs, clears his throat, looks away.

 

“I think so, yes.” She pats his knee, he turns to her, she gives him a weak smile. It makes him soften, a bit. He watches her, and wonders how old she is. Younger than him, for sure, but maybe a bit older than Octavia. There’s something in her eyes, though. A light that appear and gives her a youthful look, despite the hollowness of her cheeks. And when it’s gone, in seconds only, she could be her mother’s age.

 

“Okay. So. I don’t know if you figured but life is incredibly shitty at the moment-”

 

“Welcome to the ground.” It may be inappropriate and she doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t roll her eyes. What can he say? He’s a fucking idiot.

 

“Right. But what I wanted to say is that I could definitely use a friend right now. And for the ten next years probably.” She lets out a small laugh. He frowns, a bit, but a smirk twitches the corner of his lips.

 

“Gotta see in my agenda if I’m free. Can’t promise anything.” She chuckles, but it sounds empty. She clears her throat. Looks at her hands, picks at her nails.

 

“I’m not joking.” Her voice is quiet, and for a minute he thinks he hasn’t heard correctly and just waits. But she looks at him beneath her eyelashes, and her cheeks are a discreet shade of pink. She’s not joking.

 

“Seriously? That’s how you want me to pay you back from saving my ass? Be your friend?” That might be one of the stupidest things he has ever heard. So childish. He wasn’t expecting that from a girl who can sew you up with steady hands and keep a stern face while looking at bared bones.

 

“I mean, yes.”

 

“That’s bullshit.”

 

“So, does that mean you agree?” She gives him a tiny smile, slightly amused at his rudeness and gruffness.

 

“I guess. But I thought you had Jaha Junior.” The smile quickly disappears. It comes and goes so fast with her, he has not time to grasp her and his head is spinning. Her eyes reflect a bit more the light coming from the fire with tears filling them up.

 

“He died from his wounds yesterday.” He remembers the empty cot next to Octavia in the morning. It didn’t strike him. It does now. He curses himself, wants to take his words back, and his fingers twitch, his hand rises, willing to touch, comfort, apologize, but he takes it back quickly, searches her fleeing gaze, tries his best to sound sincere, because he is.

 

“Fuck. I didn’t know. I’m-I’m sorry.” She lets out a long sigh, and she seems to be crumbling down in front of him. She shakes her head, but the movement seems too harsh for her brittle bones. She’s going to break.

 

“Told you. Shitty life and everything.” Everything is falling apart around her, it seems. He can imagine her solitude. Her loneliness. He knows what it is like to feel alone. He has walked back to empty quarters once, with a dead mother and an imprisoned sister, and his misery the only thing filling the space and the silence. He understands.

 

“I, uh, think you could use a drink. Monty makes an awful moonshine, but it numbs the pain, a bit.” He has never found remedy to a battered heart, but he had been on his own, and he decides she won’t be. That’s no cure, but that might help. He hopes it does.

 

“You know how to make friends, Bellamy Blake.” Her saddened smile is a good start, he thinks.

 

 

 

She’s drunk and crying when he walks her back to her tent, so when she wipes her runny nose on his sleeve and asks him to stay with her, he does.

 

 

 

She leaves before he even wakes. She still works in medical, still sees her mother every day. He watches their absence of interaction when he joins Octavia to keep her company. Lincoln, who seems to be hovering around her at all time of day, much to Bellamy’s displeasure, assures him she’ll be able to walk on her own and leave medical within a week. She’ll still need someone to check on her, though, but he won’t mind doing so, he tells Bellamy. _Ditto_. He saw him make moon eyes at her, but she seems happy, happier, blushing and giggling. It’s nice to see her like this, he decides. Doesn’t mean he stops giving harsh big brother’s glares to Lincoln, though.

 

They don’t talk about the night before. But after her shift she joins him and Miller during dinner, and he mostly watches them interact, figures they already know each other from Alpha station, and listens to old stories they share. They weren’t friends, barely knew each other, but they have a common past. They talk about Wells Jaha, a bit, and his hand hesitantly covers hers, resting next to his thigh. Miller notices, but doesn’t say anything. None of them do.

 

When Miller tells them goodnight and leaves, they remain in the same position. Her cold hand under his own, and they don’t speak. They watch the people around, silently. Some kids who came with the Ark running around camp. Monty quietly sitting next to Jasper. Raven getting angry at a blond guy. Guards patrolling among the crowd. Life goes on, they suppose.

 

And when she stands, muttering about sleep and tomorrow, she takes his hand with her. He stares at her, frowning, but she won’t look at him, just tugs his hand, gets him to his feet, and starts walking to her tent, dropping her grip on him. But he follows. Lies down next to her. She’s quick to fall asleep. He didn’t know friends slept in the same bed. But he doesn’t mind. It’s better than the ground, he tells himself.

 

 

 

He spends most of his days doing nothing. The survivors of Mount Weather, the ones who don’t have family, like to stay together during the day, and during the night. They don’t blend in the crowd, and even Bellamy feels the rejection. If it wasn’t for Clarke, he would have no interaction with the Ark.

 

They try to help each other, move on. It’s difficult to do so when there’s nothing for you to move on to. He catches some of them longingly watching the guards walk through the gates in the morning, and coming back from the woods later in the day. He feels it, too, the urge to go back there. It’s foolish, he knows, it’s dangerous behind the walls, but it’s all they knew for _months_. It’s stupid, but it feels more like home than Camp Jaha. He finds himself thinking that maybe one day they’ll go back and things will be better. High hopes, and everything.

 

 

 

After a week and a half, he can’t stand the porridge. Octavia can finally leave the med tent, but has to use crutches and remain motionless as much as she can. So all she does is sit next to Bellamy and complain. He starts to complain as well, and they always find themselves talking about the porridge. Once Octavia mentions its likeness to vomit and he decides he can’t eat that anymore. He thinks about the meat they used to have, and thinks it’s a pity no one is hunting when they actually have proper weapons. He might not be sharing Clarke’s tent anymore, but they still stay together during dinner, with Miller and Octavia, and even Monty from time to time. So he asks her about the whole prospect of hunting, and she just shrugs, because she has never tasted meat before, he realizes. Sometimes he forgets she didn’t come down with them.

 

So with his sister and Miller they try to describe the taste. And then they begin to talk about _before_ , about everything they’ve eaten and seen and done and yes, maybe it had been hell, but it was something. Their lives, now, revolve around nothing at all. Clarke doesn’t get that. It’s a pity.

 

 

 

“Heard you used to hunt.” He’s sitting on the edge of camp on his own when Kane comes find him. Octavia told him she would stay with Lincoln and he might have sighed but let her go. So he’s just there, watching the wind ruffling through the branches, Kane ruining whatever moment he was having.

 

“Well, you didn’t give us much choice, did you?” He doesn’t turn around to face the man, but hears him kick a stone, and watches it hit the fence. It changes slightly the sound of the electricity going through the wires before it goes back to normal, a low sound barely perceivable.

 

“Could you do it again? If I give you men and let you go, would you do it? Hunt?” There’s no need to ask him twice. He gets back to his feet and nods a bit too eagerly. He doesn’t care. He’s going back outside.

 

 

 

Miller comes with him, and, surprisingly, Jasper does too. They haven’t still properly talked since Mount Weather, but he silently walks next to him in the woods, and maybe that’s a new start.

 

The men Kane assigned to him at first don’t really feel like obeying a guy younger than them, and a former criminal on top of that, but when he saves one of them from being killed by a huge boar, they respect him a bit more. That’s a start, too.

 

 

 

“Oh my God you were so right.” Clarke’s talking with her mouth full, a look of ecstasy on her face, and they laugh out loud at the sight. Octavia is happily nodding in approbation, Lincoln quietly eating by her side. Bellamy shared some things with him, but it feels weird to interact with him when there’s no urgency, no horror around them. Maybe Lincoln feels the same way, but he knows that his strange behaviour mostly comes from the fact Bellamy stumbled upon him and his sister kissing. Bellamy might like the guy, but they are some things he is not willing to see.

 

Miller nudges Clarke’s knee, and wipes a bit of meat from the corner of her mouth. She laughs some more and blushes and Bellamy feels something in him clench. Miller is quick to turn back to Monty and go back to whatever discussion they were having, and once again Bellamy finds himself observing how life continues to roll, to evolve, how things never remain the same and there is an end and a beginning to everything. He catches Clarke’s gaze, and she smiles at him, mouths to him _are you okay?_ And he nods, smiles too.

 

Murphy tells inappropriate jokes under his breath. Raven and Wick, the blond guy, keep on pretending they dislike each other, but they still laugh together when they catch some of Murphy’s words. Jasper talked to Bellamy this morning, and now, despite remaining quiet, he listens intently to the few conversations going around. Roma and Harper are sitting next to each other, and if at first they stayed together because the memory of Monroe linked them, now there is something else that is tying knots between the two girls.

 

Bellamy still feels some weight crushing his chest at times. But sometimes all he has to do is look up and watch his _friends_ , and it’s a little easier to breathe. Things change. People too.

 

As the sun sets he feels some sort of closure. He can’t quite put his finger on it, but he feels it deep inside his chest. He knows come morning light something new will start. And when Clarke asks him to check her wounds that night, he finds them to have mostly healed. So when he goes back to the tent he shares with his sister, and she gives him a wide smile, green eyes shining and everything, he realizes that maybe the worst is behind them, after all.

 

 

 

“So. You’re leaving.” She has walked into the tent he shares with his sister, looked around, seen the bags and the mess inside. She’s not an idiot. She has felt the twist in the air the same time he did. “When?” She looks upset. Tries to hide it. He pretends not to notice, but strangely, it seems too easy for him to see the truth behind her blank face and crossed arms.

 

“Tomorrow at dawn.” She nods sharply, looks around one more time, and he wants to smile.

 

“Where are you even going?” The survivors of Mecha station has arrived the day before. Some of his friends have gotten their families back. He’s glad for them, but some of them have decided to stay behind, with the Arkers. He’ll say goodbye to Sterling before leaving. To Jasper too, and he’ll apologize one last time. Some other families will come with them. Monty’s. And even if she’s not there anymore, Fox’s as well. They’re not 100 to leave, and his stomach hurts at the thought, but they’re not 39 anymore.

 

“We’ll see. We’ll find some place to settle. Away from here I suppose.” Each person who has decided to join him is running from something within those walls, after all. He goes back to packing the few things he has gathered for the trip. Food, water, some clothes and blankets.

 

“Right. You won’t come back here often then.” Kane approved of their departure, and convinced Jaha not to let them go without ways to defend themselves. They’ve got weapons, and a few guards gave up on living in Camp Jaha to explore the outside world with them. Everything they need doesn’t reside in that camp. They won’t need to come back.

 

“No. Maybe not at all.” Her mouth twitches at that, and she frowns ever so slightly, but she hides her reaction with a small cough, and an enthusiasm coming from absolutely nowhere. He thought she’d be subtler.

 

“Alright. It’s good for you, I guess. And your people. Finally being free and getting away from everything here to be together and all, that’s good, really g-“

 

“Come with us.” He has stopped moving around the tent and is looking directly at her. She just stops talking and her mouth hangs a bit open and he wants to chuckle at the sight.

 

“What?”

 

“Please. Come with us.” She frowns. Her fingers twitch at her sides. She balances her weight from one leg to another. Bites down on her lip, and his eyes follow the movement.

 

“But. Why?”

 

“We could use having a doctor around.” He see her begin to protest and mention Lincoln but he cuts her off before she can get anything out. “I could use having you around. A friend.” At that she sighs and looks away, and turns slightly away from him when he takes a step in her direction.

 

“I wish I could but-“

 

“There’s nothing for you here, and you know it. You’re not one of them, Clarke.” He has gotten closer without her realising, and when she looks at him she has to tilt her chin up to catch his gaze.

 

“But I’m not one of you either.” Her voice is soft and sad, and he grips her elbow gently.

 

“You could be.” She shakes her head and tries to flee his gaze but his other hand finds her chin and makes her look at him as his own voice soften. “Nobody is going to reject you. You’re the reason they’re safe and sound. They’ll be glad to have you around. Plus if I tell them you’re with us, you’re with us, ok?” His thumb mindlessly strokes her cheek and he feels her leaning in his touch as she closes her eyes and sighs, her own fingers lingering gently on the back of his hand.

 

“But my mother…”

 

“If you want to visit her I’ll go with you. But right now you can’t lie to me and tell me to my face you want to live with her every single day of your life. Right?” She sighs again and steps closer to him.

 

“Right.” She presses her other cheek to his chest and traces patterns on his shoulder. He begins stroking her hair, and her fingers start tapping on his chest a rhythm that makes him smile fondly at her. His own heartbeat. She still has her eyes closed and he wishes they could stay like this a bit longer.

 

“So does that mean you’re coming with me? With us, I mean?” She softly hums, before detaching herself from him, just enough to look him in the eyes. Her arm circles his waist and his hand stays in her hair, fingers getting lost and resting against the nape of her neck.

 

“I guess so.” His other hand reaches out for a blond strand of hair, and he puts it behind her ear as he tentatively presses his lips to the crown of her hair. He hears her sigh again and tentatively smiles at her.

 

“Good.” And then she tentatively stands to her tip toe and tentatively places a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He watches the blush spread on her cheeks and to her neck, and before she can shy away, he tentatively tilts his head. He feels her smile against his mouth, and her arms around his neck, and his hands on the small of her back. Her scent, soap and dust, filling his nostrils. Her taste, mint and strawberries, on the tip of his tongue. And his guilt, gently being wiped by the touch of her cold fingers on his burning skin.

 

 

 

“So, you’re like the King of those people, huh?” He has just told everybody that the break was over, and that they had to start moving again. He has begun walking, leading the way and hearing his friends follow him, their chatter filling the woods. And Clarke is by his side, talking to him but admiring the expanse of land surrounding them. And he finds himself admiring her.

 

“If that’s you trying to get an upgrade from princess to queen you’ve gotta fill in a form before. Tons of applications, I gotta go through them and everything, you know, before picking someone. You have to be outstanding for me to pick you.” She laughs and pushes his arm, but when her hand drops he catches it and grins at her. This is the beginning of something else. And things can only be looking up, he supposes. And if they don’t, well, he knows the only solution. Stand and fight. It’s what he has always done. Has always knew. He remembers his history books and smiles. _We shall never surrender._ And with his people behind him, a riffle in one hand, and Clarke mindlessly holding the other, he’s not doing that anytime soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> final quote is from Winston Churchill, i don't even know where that came from.. :)
> 
> it was supposed to be a one-shot and then it turned into some sort of monster, but yeah, that was the final part :) i'd love to hear your thoughts on this story :) i'm already working on two other AUs, a WWIII one and a Grounder!Bellamy one, so if you're interested stay tuned :) thanks for reading x

**Author's Note:**

> ok so i've never written something this long for this fandom and i'm sorry if there's a lot of mistakes but i've got no beta and english isn't my first language so please bear with me :) x
> 
> title is from the song "only if for a night" by florence and the machine  
> c x


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